


Banished to Eden

by blackcricket



Series: A is for Antichrist [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Antichrist!Eddie, Arcades, Aziraphale!Ben Hanscom, Crowley!Bev, Derry (Stephen King), F/M, M/M, The Losers Club Are Not Heterosexual (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket
Summary: Richie Tozier is fourteen hours away from coming into his all-consuming, apocalypse-hailing powers. Immortal companions, Ben and Beverly, are uncertain as to what will follow.On an unrelated note, Eddie is insulted.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: A is for Antichrist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667140
Kudos: 16





	Banished to Eden

"The problem is that he doesn't listen—"

"Darling, it's not that he doesn't listen, it's that he doesn't care." Bev waves a bejeweled hand toward the city; toward gleaming pinnacles they have watched decimate the horizon since the industrial age. Below, the streets are speckled with the writhing mass of humanity, each mortal utterly convinced in their ability to succeed. "We can tell him that he's the Lord of Darkness, Prince of Damnation, He-who-shall-not-be-crowned-until-the-end-times, etcetera, etcetera, but that doesn't mean he believes it."

Skin itching with the urge to act, Ben lurches to his feet. "He's not the Antichrist yet," he says, striding to join Bev against the railing.

Cigarette in hand, Bev shoots him an incandescent glare; smoke pluming between her fangs. "Ben, we've been over this before and we never reach a solution. What are you hoping to accomplish—"

"He's a child, albeit the probable cause of our impending Armageddon and I . . ." Ben swallows tightly, fidgeting with the rolled sleeve of his flannel. "I just want to make sure we've considered all the options." He looks away from her, hoping to the Almighty that the distant ambulance sirens howling through the city below are not rushing to toward fires lit on his account. "He's a good kid, just . . ."

Languid and loose, Bev stretches across the railing; glass turned molten in the final rays of dusk. Her skin is serpentine-familiar, like embers falling amidst the snow. ". . . insane?" She drawls, amusement curling in a second, voiceless echo.

Ben wants to catch it; like butterflies in the garden. Blushing, he stomps down the impulse.

Bev laughs, his silence an answer in itself. Softly, their shoulder's brush; sunglasses winking out of the fold of her shirt like nestled diamonds. "He was always going to be strange, my dear. We simply . . . accelerated the process."

"Perhaps we shouldn't have," he says, for the millionth time. "Perhaps we shouldn't have—"

At the press of her index finger to his lips, Ben stills.

Her eyes are slitted orbs, revealed only in the comfort of his presence. Only where the rest of the world cannot hope to glimpse their siren depths. "At the risk of sounding senile, we can't expect to change his life more than we have already, angel. There are a plethora of worlds we could escape to, just say the word—"

"You know we can't," Ben whispers, drawing away from her. "My side would never agree to it."

Bev smiles, soft and sad. "I wasn't planning on asking permission."

"I know," he says; syllables crafted in the forge of each promise he has been unable to voice. "You are wily, old demon—"

Bev slaps his arm, gasping in playful shock. "You don't speculate upon a lady's age, Ben Handsome."

For a moment, the world is perfect, then he groans, realization bursting his bubble. "Don't call me that."

"Hate to break it to you, but it's caught on." Bev smirks, her grin a lazy creature. "Everyone's calling you that, now."

Ben buries his head in his hands. "No, they are not," he mumbles.

Laughter brimming, Bev hums into his ear. "Don't let it bug you, angel. He just summons insufferable nicknames because I've warned him off using mine." Here, seconds falling away from his grasp like stars flung from the Almighty's throne; her shoulder a bright patch of warmth. His palm digs into the railing, ichor dripping down the glass, unseen. The smell of her cigarette smoke, the only reason he cannot label this moment a side-walk, taunted daydream.

"Angel," she whispers, close enough to taste.

Heart in his throat, Ben turns to face her, eons of the universe carved into what little space exists between them. "Yes?" He asks, a flame of hope guttering in his chest.

Bev looks away; the lights of the city flickering across her face. " . . . it's not important."  
——————————  
"—and y'all fuckers are screwed when I finally come into my world-domineering, hell-gifted powers because yow-ZA folks, the world is screwed right? We all know this, and unless it miraculously gets better in the next," he checks his watch; eyes bugging out exaggeratedly. "Twenty seconds; watch out world because—"

With a heaving sigh, the last of Richie's pint-sized audience abandons him for the beckoning beachfront. In their wake, the white tent rustles absently. Standing center stage on a literal milk carton, Richie Tozier is firmly ignored; his shrieking attempts to hail Armageddon, just another part of the scenery. Their jewels blinding in the summer heat, his mother's chattering socialites cast only vague glances in his direction, their judgement flitting this way and that as their eyes catch sight of yet another blandly smiling, business associate of his father's.

From where he leans against the bar, Ben rolls a silver dollar nervously along his knuckles. Part of him feels only sympathy for Richie's unending predicament of sought friendship, but the majority of his attention is slightly preoccupied with the time. Any moment now, the hellhound will appear. Any moment now, the true fight for humanity will begin . . .

Hair curling bright as bonfire against her chin, Bev appears at his side. "Where is the dog?" She asks, smoke trailing behind her in a bridal veil's mockery.

"You're the demon," Ben snaps, worry coating his words with acid. "You're supposed to be keeping track of its arrival."

"You're the one with angelic powers, miracle up an answer—"

"It doesn't work like that!"

"Maybe it should," she hisses, snaking a hand into an unseen pocket of her slinky dress, and unearthing his long-lost, pocket watch. With a pop of her gum, she frowns down at it; then out at the beachfront.

"—and by the end of the seven days of meme-ockery, you'll finally understand why I, the fucking antichrist, should have been someone you—is anyone even bothering to pretend to listen to me?" Richie shrieks, his hands waving wildly through the air; shirt already speckled with the aftereffects of ice-cream. "This moment could determine your future!"

From her lounge chair in the corner of the tent, sunshine-speckling her neon bikini, Richie's mother doesn't so much as look up from her phone. ". . . absolutely, darling. Please, continue."

Scowling, Richie pushes his glasses up his nose. "Don't patronize me, Meggie! Any moment now I'll be coming into my laser-shooting, web-slinging indefinite powers, and you'll regret all the lousy-things you've made me do, all the forgotten . . . forgotten . . ." he turns to Ben and Bev where they are watching him from the against the bar, worriedly scanning the crowd for the merest hint of a dog. "What's taking so long?"

"Richie," Ben says, trying and failing to smile at him; because something is unfathomably wrong and yet he can't think past his need to erase this child's irritation. "I need you to be very calm right now, can you do that for me?"

Richie jumps off the milk crate, unimpressed. "Don't talk down to me, Haystack. You're not my dad—"

"We made a mistake," Bev says, blunt as the swords hanging above her fireplace are sharp. Idly, she pops her gum; sunglasses glinting in the afternoon sunshine. "You're not the Antichrist."

"What do you mean, I'm not?" Richie shrieks, his mouth dropping open in horror.  
——————————  
"Were the last ten years just for kicks? Am I a long-term episode of pranked?" Richie asks through a paper towel. In the second after Ben's warning glance, the sink gleams spotless of all recently projected vomit. "I just can't understand why the fuck you would teach a little kid that he was the Bringer of All Damnation for ostrich-stretching eons and then tell the truth—only how am I supposed to believe anything at all by this point! You lied to me throughout the entire span of my fucking monkey-suit childhood—" Richie interrupts himself, lurching forward to hurl his guts again.

Throat tightening, Ben scrapes the heel of his shoe against the molding tile, black marks vanishing in its wake. Judging by the graffiti he wouldn't put it past this public washroom to have paid homage to a recent murder. Law enforcement would only need to glance across the expletives to gain a suspect list, complete with drunkenly scrawled cell numbers.

Through the open window, wave-riddled shouts waft through a bird-shit-encrusted screen. Somewhere along the beachfront, sand is trapping the heels of innumerable socialites, champagne glasses clinking as entitled children whine.

Bev nudges Ben in the side, her gaze scimitar pointed. "—which is of course why you were taken under our metaphorical wings, right Ben?"

By some miracle, he manages to smile. "Exactly," he says, the explanation he has been writing for over a decade tumbling unprompted from his mouth. "However, just because we found and taught you under mistaken circumstances does not mean we value you any less . . ." he trails off, Bev's rapidly flushing face signal enough that something is wrong.

Richie spits into the sink; shirt coated in a thick spray of now dribbling vomit. "What are you talking about?" He asks, staring up at their reflections.

Confused, Ben shoves down the surge of his swallowing worry. "I figured—"

"For once could you at least attempt to stick with my story?" Bev hisses, glare boring into his skull with the force of an oil drill. "Not every situation requires you making folks feel better about their self-esteem, or traumatic childhood, or—or their debilitating visions of the apocalypse!"

The door creaks open, a wrinkled old man grinning in at them. "Excuse me," he drawls, eyes scanning every inch of Bev's skin like she is arrayed upon a cable television screen purely for his enjoyment. "Are y'all having a family feud in here or can I request a small favor of the lovely," his grin widens, " . . . lady."

Bev stubs her smoldering cigarette into the counter, ashes sizzling as they meet water. Her eyes are molten; fury rumbling through the tiles. "LEAVE US, MORTAL," she hisses; limbs flickering with a demonic second-image; skin into scales, hair into flame.

With a pitiful cry, his boardshorts darkening with urine, the man flees.

Smoothing a hand through her hair, smoke trailing off her sleeveless shoulders, Bev turns to face Richie. For a moment shorter than eternity yet longer than damnation, their eyes meet in the mirror.

With a violent heave, Richie starts vomiting again.

Over the crown of his bedraggled head, the angel and demon of Eden exchange a glance. In the often blasphemous bridge between their minds, there are no words; no consolation for the impending destruction of their world. In the silence between them, where the voiceless can speak, and the sightless may see, there is only truth.

If they leave him here, he will die. They have known Richie Tozier for eleven years of his life; watched his parents neglect to spare him so much as a teaspoon of attention; watched schools reject his search for friendship in the form of favoritism and detentions alike. If they leave Richie Tozier here, they leave him to navigate the wild beaches and junkie filled streets of Los Angeles alone.

He'll either go quiet. Or keep searching for attention, keep searching for a friendly face to notice him until one day he decides the best way to do that is to jump off a skyscraper.

Within moments they are in the parking lot, Richie corralled between them. He smells like vomit, his shirt is putrid with pestilence and yet . . .

With morbid certainty, Bev chooses a car from amidst the lineup of neon, convertibles. With a snap of her fingers, the engine starts; a rough purr grating against their eardrums. Richie perks up. "Hey are we going on a road trip?"

Ben latches onto the opportunity to avoid further explanations, like a goldfish reentering its tank. "Yes," he says, shoving confidence into the word with a forcefully American nod. "Is there anywhere in particular that you wanted to go?"

Richie's eyes light up and he scrambles into the backseat. "There's this whole host of hauntings along the eastern coast, including the fucking Salem witch trials melting pot but also like a behemoth list of alleged demonic possessions—" He begins riffling through the center glovebox, hands discarding gum, Sudoku and Archie comics with unfiltered disgust. "Not to mention Connecticut, wow-ZA that place is wild—"

"How are we going to do this?" Ben whispers to Bev as he clambers into the passenger seat. "Neither of us can drive—"

Bev grins, wildfire in her eyes. "Leave it to me."

Anticipation, a livewire running his spine, Ben miracles Richie's gangly limbs safely buckled into a harness that is at least twenty years behind the current code requirements.

Gum popping, Bev adjusts the mirror. With a shriek of tires, she pulls out into the street, skid marks the only identifier of their recent theft.

They break thirty-two traffic laws but within minutes are settled on the Los Angeles highway. Even under Ben's concerned gaze it still takes hours until the gearshift will switch at her merest threatening twitch, it is then that Bev looks away from the road; her hands a blur as they weave through rush-hour's insanity. "Where are we going?" She asks Ben over the wind, the afternoon, sunshine-frenzy, an intoxicating rush of speed.

"As far away as we can get," Ben mutters, glancing over his shoulder.

Across the back seat, Richie lies slumped, his glasses askew, a trail of drool dripping onto the once-pristine, now sugar-coated, leather. A flush has spread its way across his cheeks, and for one horrifying moment Ben is spine-chillingly certain he has caught the plague, certain this lanky and foul-mouthed motormouth will die of scarlet fever; penicillin a concept yet to be discovered.

A hand finds his, desert-dry and rough as sandpaper. "Don't dwell on it," Bev says, the wind waning to allow them a breath of afternoon-silence amidst the rush-hour traffic. "You—you think too well of them, angel."  
——————————  
They are two hours from New York when Ben first gets the feeling, a steady itch between his shoulder blades; it reminds him of the long-entrenched urge to unfurl his wings, a distant corner of instinct rising to the forefront of his ethereal memories. Perhaps, Ben muses, this is what forgetfulness feels like.

He turns to Bev, intending to ask whether she feels the same itch of unfamiliar pressure, the same question knotting her stomach into loops. His mouth is open, half a question breathed into the morning hush—all immediately thrown to the west wind as she turns to smile at him. He gets caught there, marveling in the gold mine of her smile. Head in hand, he lingers in the exchange of glimmering amusement they begin, question forgotten. Sprawled across the backseat Richie snores softly, his recent acquisitions of fast-food wrappers and comic books tucked snuggly within his grasp.

The windows are open, yet the dawn seems to house only their presence; the empty highway stretching long and loose before them with infinite possibility.

When he asks her later, Bev swears that she meant to stop. That she pulled into Manhattan, exited the highway, and parked illegally beside a fire-hydrant to search up apartments for rent on her phone. When he asks her later, sleep-fog battling his memory, Bev has no answers for why they are seven hours away from their agreed destination in a place the storefronts halfheartedly claim is Derry, Maine.  
—————————  
Richie wakes up to the sound of doors closing in disjointed unison. Yawning till his jaw clicks, he rolls—and tumbles from his nest of comic books into the crevasse between seats where river stones, slushie cups, and gnarled sticks are now tucked.

Glasses shoved against his cheek, Richie scrambles upward; his earbuds tangle twice around his neck before he is finally upright again, comic book covers wrinkled against his oblivious palms.

Through the insect cemetery of the windshield, he glimpses rain-slick streets. The drizzle of an absentminded rain patters against the roof above him; almost lulling in its complacency. On the corner, a group of boys stand just outside the pawnshop. One of them is holding a large silver bike; he looks half way to being bowled over by the monstrosity.

"Why the fuck can't I have that?" Richie hisses; then glances carefully around to make sure no one is near enough to hear. Some comments were meant to stay in your head; locked far from even your own self.

Parked as they are against the street curb, he can just barely glimpse the figures of Ben and Bev through the windshield cemetery. Heads bent together, over something red and gleaming, they lean into each other like saplings in a gale. Richie squirms to the side, trying to get a better vantage point and—  
—————————  
The motorbike perched beside the curb is a ruby red; like candy apples and taffy it draws the eye. The bike itself is a slithering concoction of polished fenders and soft lines. The tailpipe is built like a heavyweight champ.

Bev whirls to Ben; the key upon her chain swinging outward. It is a tiny object of insignificant weight, and yet as it flicks against his flannel-clad arm, Ben's chest aches with what he cannot voice.

"—don't you think?" Bev concludes.

"Sorry, I don't—can you repeat that?" Ben asks, biting his lip. "I was thinking about Richie."

Bev raises an eyebrow. "I was talking about Richie myself. You'd think those two topics would have gravitated toward each other instead of diverging."

Ben smiles at her, tiredly. "You know that's not how my brain works—"

"Yes, angel, I know," she says, placing a hand upon his arm. It is the same arm which her key skimmed, the same arm which is half-petrified, half-enthralled at the mere concept of further contact. "I just found the thought amusing, that's all." She turns back to the bike. "I was just saying that perhaps one of us could miracle a sidecar."

Ben tips his head to the side, considering. "Why though?" He asks.

Bev is grinning now, eyes alight with the idea now dreamed into existence. "For Richie, of course!"

"I'm confused," Ben says, trying valiantly to keep his arm still. "What's happening?"

Bev frowns at him. "We're stealing the bike, angel. Keep up!"

"We can't steal the bike, someone will come out of their shop and notice us. And then—" Bev is laughing, light and bubbling; and Ben wants to join in more than he wants to breathe. "—they will notify the cops. Which we can't, at this particular point in time, afford to miracle away, Beverly."

She sticks her tongue out at him; confidence brazen as her freckles. "We'll just have to buy the bike, then."

"What? No, that's not what I meant . . ." Ben protests halfheartedly against her laughter; the brimming sound of her jubilance soaring through his veins, swift as heroin. "You're making this decision based on the unproven assumption that they'll even want to sell—"

Stretching upward on tiptoe, Bev kisses his cheek. "Angel, you worry too much," she whispers, curls flickering fervent as flames against her black collar. "No one can resist me when I make them an offer."

Heart in his throat, Ben can't object.  
—————————  
With a heave and huff, Richie lurches out of the car. Lovesick guardians abandoned where they stand, he surveys the puddle-dotted pavement with a city-kids' nonchalance. The street signs and storefronts are ragged; all thoughts of maintenance disregarded like the paint cans along the curb. The same troupe of kids that he glimpsed earlier are moving down the sidewalk now, hands waving as they argue. A dog is running at their heels now; long, and lean, and shaggy as a mop. Despite practically falling over them with every step, the mutt looks downright cheerful.

Previous intent forgotten, Richie watches them tie up the big silver bike to a lamppost; entranced by the distant roar of their voices, the scrape of their elbows against sides. They stand on the stoop of a shop, their faces flickering green and ghoulish in the glare of something Richie can't explain—until he looks up and sees the word, ARCADE, stretched in neon. As if he can feel the eyes upon them, one of the boys, pint-sized with—is that a fanny pack?—the hound dodging his footsteps, whirls to stare at Richie.

Heartbeat drumming in his ears, Richie ducks behind their stolen car, hoping whoever he is won't follow to investigate. Pint-sized has a gaze that could rival Medusa. After a breathless minute—or what feels equivalent to his train-racketing brain—Richie peers back over the car. The sidewalk opposite is empty. Pint-sized, dog, and troupe in tow, have vanished into the arcade.

Destination acquired, Richie shoves his glasses up his nose, and runs across the street, cars honking in protest.

Mind cheerfully blank, he trips through the door; hinges shrieking in protest. It is nothing like the places back in L.A. The lights are the same; the clink of arcade coins familiar, but the rest is small-town, dingy. Doormat crusted with mud and dried beetle wings. The whining conglomerate of pot-melted sound grating like half-dead Velcro against the ear. Hairspray wafting stronger than a corpse, teenagers argue over strings of tickets at the counter, their mohawks spiked high enough to brush the ceiling. With an elbow to the ribs, a pair of kids in rubber-boots clamber past Richie and out the door; sunlight whispering briefly across the smudged glass, and whirring machines. 

Grinning to himself, Richie saunters inward; peering over shoulders and into token slots in the vague hope that someone has forgotten their money. The tile underfoot sucks at his sneakers, sticky patches of phantom-slushie like quicksand against the soles. Outside, Ben and Beverly are likely conning some poor sop out of their motorbike. Lord knows, this won't be the last time they overcompensate to avoid discussing their painfully ardent affection. Richie has known them since the early years of his neglected childhood; been dropping hints since he was in preschool, and still they seem unable to cotton on to their very mutual need to bang.

He swipes a candy bar from where some poor kid has forgotten it beside the controller of Dance, Dance Revolution, and takes an eager bite. Lunch was hours ago, sometime between his fourth nap of the day and when Ben told him that knock, knock jokes were preceded by the temporary craze of 'Do you know Arthur?' wordplay.

It is then, kids shoving past him, mohawked teenagers screaming high as a dog-whistle at the cashier, that he sees it. Glorious and worn. Paint chipping off the side. A creaking behemoth amidst the newer machines.

Street Fighter.

Sneakers squeaking, he skids to a stop before it; hands running across the machine with frantic energy. Finding an original of this game, that has not been remastered since its release in 1987 to suit the newer arcades is a pursuit, he thought would take lifetimes.

For Richie Tozier, this is the game which could conquer worlds. The holy grail of discoveries.

Impatient, he fiddles with the controls. They've been driving for days across the country; L.A. left in the dust of their exhaust. The universe owes him a spot of good luck in repayment for the constant moon-eyes of his guardians.

The opening sequence doesn't so much as flicker.

Richie pushes his glasses up his nose. No one said luck was easy to find. With a huff he drops to the tile, knees squelching against whatever was last dropped there. With careful precision, he scans the floor. People are constantly forgetting tokens around old games like these; he would say it occurs because no one appreciates their value, but even in his head that sounds like something Ben would say.

In the flickering arcade lights, nothing glimmers; all magic locked tightly away.

Richie returns to Street Fighter. Sneakers scuffing against the floor, he lets himself stare longingly at the scene flashing in repeat across its warped glass. This the chance of a lifetime, he can't let it slip away.

Richie considers his options for a moment.

He could pester Ben and Bev into giving him enough money for tokens. However, the likelihood of them bundling him up into their car/motorbike/newest illegally appropriated vehicle without waiting for an explanation of why he disappeared and what he found is higher than average right now.

He cons the cashier out of tokens and hides out in the arcade until Ben and Bev remember he exists again. Potential setbacks include: fire, property damage, and getting sent to jail. Also losing his only chance to play Street Fighter.

Richie moves on.

He uses his antichrist powers of world-bending to miracle free tokens into existence. The only problem with this option is that Bev no longer believes he is the antichrist, which Richie doesn't consider a bad thing because the world needs to stick around long enough for him to become famous, and it kinda sounded like universe implosion was the inevitable consequence—until he realizes that no Armageddon equals no powers.

The mere fact that Ben and Bev thought he was the antichrist and now think their first impression was wrong, is in itself a flawed concept because according to many people on the internet—who may or may not be not-so-anonymous hackers and stand up comedians—you should always act upon your first impulse. Their first instinct resulted in him being raised as the antichrist, therefore at least some part of their immortal being shtick must be ruled by instinct and—

Unconcerned by the kids veering away from his maniacal grin, Richie plants his hands on his hips, and closes his eyes. He may not believe in fairness, but he does believe in karma and if you think about it, either way he has earned these tokens: if he isn't the antichrist then he managed not to destroy the world, and if he is, then hellhound present or not, now would be the time to unlock his powers.

He scrunches his eyes shut. "Tokens in the machine," he mutters. "Tokens in the machine, tokens, tokens, tokens—"

"Are you delusional?" Someone asks, voice like a knife against Richie's thoughts. "You can't get tokens by wishing for them, least of all in broad fucking daylight! That would destroy the economy and do you know how important the economy is? If people got things just by wishing for them we'd be hailing a new age of the Depression."

Glaring, Richie opens his eyes, retort halfway formed.

Red shorts. Fanny pack. Inhaler.

From three feet away, Pint-sized scowls up at him, antiseptic wafting like cologne. At his heels, the hound waits obediently.

In that moment, Richie has never felt more certain that he is the antichrist. Only the magic of supposed immortal beings could ensure that he would meet this person. He opens his mouth, to say something that will wipe the rapidly growing disgust off Pint-sized's face—anything at all.

"Do you have such a large dog to compensate for your tiny dick?"

**Author's Note:**

> To be Continued . . .


End file.
